


A Perfect Trap

by StraysInfiltrator



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gascon backstory, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 07:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30119517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StraysInfiltrator/pseuds/StraysInfiltrator
Summary: He planted his halberd into the earth so hard the ground shook, and dropped heavily to one knee. His eyes were on Gascon’s. “Melitele be my witness. I’m your man. My weapon I pledge to you. If thro’ hell our road take us, an' you lead, I’ll go willin’.”Gascon considers his obligations to the Strays, and the impossible choice that awaits him.
Kudos: 4





	A Perfect Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for Thronebreaker Chapter 4 (Angren map), and some hints at Chapter 5 spoilers. 
> 
> Set in Mahakam during Chapter 3.

“Two to one, the dwarf wins!” Gascon heard a soldier shout behind him. The dwarven tavern they were in could not fit all of their troops, or even half of them, but the men were making a serious effort to test the limits of the small space. Gascon hadn’t expected that his earlier jest about outdrinking a dwarf would be taken seriously by anyone, but he had not reckoned with Gabor Zigrin. The dwarf took personal offense and declared his honor would not be satisfied until Gascon either apologized or sank under the table besotted. And Gascon was not the type to apologize.

Now, as Gascon drew his fifth pint to his mouth, he wondered just how far the dwarf would drag him to defend his honor. The two sat opposite each other, eyes locked, as mugs of ale waited ominously in front of them.

Gascon’s men were betting only on him. He knew they were risking practically all their limited gold, with the odds firmly against them. Reynard’s soldiers were, of course, sensibly betting on the dwarf. One of them stepped forward—a man scarcely older than twenty, but clad in armor inlaid with fine golden accents. The youth bounced a hefty pouch in his hands as he weighed his options.

Gascon groaned and supported his forehead on his hand, then reached for the next mug with shaky fingers. He grabbed at the handle once, twice, and finally gripped it in an unsteady hold. The young soldier, upon seeing this, nodded with satisfaction and announced he was betting his pouch’s entire contents on the dwarf.

Mahakam ale was much stronger than ales brewed by humans. Gascon could tell this merely by its biting taste, for he could scarcely feel its intoxicating properties. He suspected that his resilience to the stuff was not just due to ample practice, though he’d had plenty of that, but also the result of a strange immunity that ran in his family’s bloodline and cropped up every few generations. Gascon’s great-grandmother was said to have taken liquor in her tea cups and yet never got drunk, and there were stories about a distant cousin who caused a stir at her wedding when she outdrank all the men and still danced the night away with perfect coordination. Whatever the cause, Gascon stayed utterly sober as he drank mug after mug. Still he paced himself, not wanting to make his advantage look too obvious. Finally, just as Gabor looked like he was about to collapse, Gascon reached for the next three mugs with astonishing speed and gulped them down.

Gabor just stared, then waved a dismissive hand. “Demons take ye, ye human-faced imp,” he said as he rose with some difficulty. “I give up. Dinnae wanna get carried out o’here on a stretcher.” A roar of shouts and cheers engulfed the tavern—Reynard’s soldiers protesting while the Strays demanded their winnings. Gascon turned to watch the dwarf stagger out the door and became aware for the first time that Reynard and Meve had been standing just a few feet away.

“Impossible! I can’t believe it!” Reynard was saying to the queen, shaking his head. “Gascon, he…he drank a dwarf under th’ table!”

“I’ve said it before, I think, dear Reynard. You simply underestimate him.”

Gascon couldn’t conceal a smile. He felt absurdly pleased. “Reynard, undereshtimating me?” he said with feigned shock, slurring his speech. “I’m hurt to hear it! What—what reason would I ‘ave e’er given him to do that?”

“Well you do tend to—exaggerate a bit, perhaps,” said Meve with a smile. “All the bragging about the drinking, the juggling…”

“T’is all true! I have—” he crossed his eyes and hiccuped ”—proven myself at drinking, I should hope. And if you doubt my juggling prowess—”

“I wouldn’t give you much luck at balancing your own body in your current state, let alone juggling anything,” interjected Reynard sharply.

“Oh, really?” Gascon turned to Meve. “Shuppose I prove him wrong again. What do I get in return, m’lady?” He drew the words out and looked at her from under hooded eyelids. Drink was a good cover for excessive boldness.

“Well, I suppose—” she said as she exhaled with a slight laugh ”—should I ever need a juggler-at-arms to lead a mummers’ regiment, I will certainly keep you in mind for the position.”

“A fair offer, and I’ll hold you to it.” Gascon was already picking up some apples from a bowl— _trust dwarves to have good food stored away for the winter_ —and now he rotated them in his hand, testing his fingers. They moved swiftly with perfect precision. The effects of the ale were already fading, as he’d expected. He held Meve’s gaze. The anticipation of triumph surged in him like a heartbeat.

“I’ve no time for games,” Reynard interrupted. “Your Grace, with your permission I will start preparations for tomorrow. Black Brook Vale awaits us, as I’m sure you recall, and I’m concerned about what may lie in wait for our men there.”

“Yes Reynard, of course.” Meve’s light tone was gone, and her eyes looked tired as she watched her general depart. Gascon cursed inwardly at the man’s timing. Couldn’t he let his queen relax just for one evening without reminding her of the horrors ahead? It was so rare to see her truly smiling, these days…

Gascon spun the apples in his hands and reached a decision quite suddenly. “Hey Meve, watch this!” he yelled out. As she turned to look, he launched all the apples into the air at once, giving them a slight twist to send each on their merry way. Several patrons instinctively ducked and covered their heads in alarm. A sergeant jumped up with an undignified yelp as a splash displaced the contents of his mug onto his recently shined breastplate. A dwarf server tried to valiantly shield his tray full of dishes from the projectiles, only to swing it so far that the metal plates clattered ostentatiously, one by one, to the ground.

Meve burst out a laugh, then covered her mouth politely to try to stop it, then gave in and bent over breathlessly, one hand on a table to support herself. Some of the soldiers took this chance to avenge their gambling losses with mocking remarks. _Worth it_ , thought Gascon, seeing Meve’s face, her eyes squeezed shut in joy. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheek and touched the corner of her lips. She took off a glove and wiped her eye with the back of her hand. It was rare to see her hands uncovered, Gascon realized, especially in the freezing cold of Mahakam. Her fingers were long and delicate, the skin almost translucent in the candlelight.

She was looking at him. Gascon became aware of it with a start, wondering how long he had been lost in watching her. No more than a moment, surely; and yet her piercing blue eyes were on his, narrowed as if in thought. Gascon blinked, slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while pretending to shield himself from the light with the other. “Ahh, can’t even shee shtraight anymore…” He looked at the tavern wall behind Meve with unfocused eyes, trying to salvage the situation. “Nexsht time I’ll let the blashted dwarf win…”

One of the Strays, a tall tower of a man known only as Torvek, rose up from a table nearby and walked up to Gascon. “Here. Let me help you b’fore you make fruit salad out of all our drinks.” He grinned broadly, revealing a gap in his front teeth, and draped Gascon’s arm over his broad shoulders. Under the pretense of drunkenness Gascon could do nothing but let himself be lifted from the table. He walked unsteadily, leaning on his companion. Torvek kicked the tavern door open against the wind. A harsh burst of cold hit them as they made their way outside.

“Full awake, aren’t you?” Torvek asked once the door had slammed shut behind them.

“‘Course I am. But keep it up a bit more; I don’t want trouble. Pesky gnome’s been calling me a hustler already, like the sore loser at cards that he is.”

“Real unfair-like, f’sure,” Torvek replied with a perfectly straight face. They shuffled along on the slippery snow. “A fine lass she is, th’ queen, eh?” Torvek said conversationally.

“That she is,” agreed Gascon, for there was no denying it.

“Aye, those tresses like golden silk…”

“Mhmm…eyes like th’ clearest sky…”

“Arse cheeks so firm they’d crack a walnut…”

Gascon choked on air and stumbled over his feet. “Torvek, my lad. Take my advice an’ don’t start writing poetry. I fear th’ Strays might desert en masse upon hearin’ it.”

“Aye, a pretty lass that one,” continued Torvek, undaunted. “Pretty and strong, and a mind in ‘er head like Mahakam steel.” He turned his gaze on Gascon. “Think she don’t notice, when a man looks at ‘er like you just did? Think she don’t know what it means?”

“An’ what of it? Everyone looks at her.”

“Everyone, aye, and that general of ‘ers most of all. Looks at ‘er like he’d kiss th’ dirt she walked on, if his men weren’t there to see. An’ he has soldiers at his beck and call, an’ they think we Strays are shite. All they need is a whistle from him and they’ll be at our throats, and they’re twice our number, decked in plate and swords when we got scraps for armor. You land your fingers on loot that’s not meant for you, an’ you’ll get us all burned.”

“I haven’t gone daft, you oversized chaperone!” Gascon unhooked his arm from around the taller man and stood. He rolled his shoulder and rubbed it with his hand to regain feeling in it. “Is that why you pulled me out here in such a hurry? Next time, don’t bother. I can take care of myself.” He started walking away when he heard Torvek’s voice behind him.

“I know you can, but what about us? Th’ general’s soldiers, he takes care of ‘em, for all his tough love. And th’ queen, she watches out for him. But none of ‘em give a rat’s ass for us Strays. You’s all we got. You forget about us, put us in harm’s way, then who’ll pull us out of th’ fire?”

Torvek had a knack for getting to the heart of the matter. Gascon stopped, sighed, and made himself turn around to face his friend. “All right. I could’ve been more careful. But it doesn't mean I forgot you, any of you.” He glanced around quickly and made sure there was no one else near as he spoke in a lowered voice. “I told you before. I have a plan. Won’t be much longer, and if it works out you’ll have naught more to ever worry about.”

* * *

After his talk with Torvek, Gascon found he couldn't face the prospect of the noisy camp just now. Venturing onto the trail, he sought the silence of a nearby dwarven ruin, one of the many the dwarves must have carved from their mountains so long ago. He stepped gingerly through the crumbling door, though he could as well have entered through what remained of the front wall. How long since the mountain had reclaimed this home from its owners, he wondered? On the second floor of the deserted structure he found a space that could have been a banquet room, illuminated by moonlight through massive arches at one end. He found the side that was shielded from the wind, pulled his cloak around himself tightly, and settled down to think.

_I have a plan_ , he had told Torvek. Indeed it had seemed like a very sound, straightforward plan, back when he came up with it just after he learned of the queen’s imprisonment in the tower. Gascon and the Strays had been in a tight spot. Caldwell wanted them caught now that they had outlived their usefulness. Fleeing to neighboring lands posed its own challenges, with Nilfgaard’s occupation spreading everywhere; a heavy, well organized military presence bode ill for brigands and their trade. The only way for Gascon to ensure his own and his men’s safety was to strike a deal with Nilfgaard itself. And having Queen Meve under his control was the perfect instrument for that. The hardest part had been simply to convince his lads to follow along.

He remembered that night with perfect clarity. It was mere hours after the Strays had gotten him out of the tower. He’d gathered them in the inner courtyard of an abandoned building, just inside the city walls. He couldn't tell them all the details of his scheme, not when any one man’s careless slip of the tongue could have revealed all to the queen. He could only roughly outline the steps, and ask his Strays to trust him on the rest. He expected questions and protests, and he got them.

“So…you want to spend th’ Strays’ gold on bribing prison guards, just to free this queen, who ain’t queen no longer, who was all ready to send you to the hangman?” one of the Strays asked. “And then we spring her men alongside her, not one cock’s crow after they near slit our throats in battle? And then—” he raised his voice over Gascon’s attempt to interrupt “—follow the pair of yer to devil knows where, without bein’ told how this all pays off? Is that all you’d have from us?” A few men laughed and shook their heads.

“No, it’s not all,” said Gascon. He took a deep breath. He felt there was little chance his men would accept what he was about to say, yet the entire scheme depended on it. “You’ve always been free to roam as you please, plunder whatever you could grab, cut your own side deals as you found them. That won’t work anymore. If the queen’s to take us along willingly, I’ll have to say to her: ‘These are my men, whom you can trust, fully under my command’—and so it must be. A pack of unruly puppies she does not need! You’ll have to do as I say, go where I go, and if you don’t like somethin’ you keep your trap shut while she’s around, and ne’er mouth off at me in front of her or her men. Then if you want to come find me in private to complain, I promise I’ll listen, though I can’t say you’ll always like what I decide. That is how it’ll have to be if we are to pull this off.”

Gascon paused to survey his men. Some of the lads exchanged looks or grumbled in whispers, but said nothing aloud. “I wish there was another way,” said Gascon. “I’ve never lied to you. This is going to be a long shot, but it’s our best chance at getting out of this war in one piece, and with enough gold to start new lives in a world ruled by Nilfgaard. If you think it’s too risky, I get it; road’s that way and may th’ gods watch over you. But if you’re in—then from now on I need you to be _my_ men, and fully committed, each and every one of you. I won’t have a single weak link ruin this for all.” He stopped to give them time to take in his words. “So then. Who’s with me?” He asked it quietly, his heart pounding. Everything depended on this moment, and he had no idea what to expect. The silence stretched on.

Finally Torvek stepped forward, his heavy frame towering over Gascon. “I don’t trust any man in this world, an’ for good reason. I don’t obey no comandante. Nor do I bow ‘fore any lord.” His mouth was a sneer in the darkness. “Not ‘fore anyone, ‘scept you.” He planted his halberd into the earth so hard the ground shook, and dropped heavily to one knee. His eyes were on Gascon’s. “Melitele be my witness. I’m your man. My weapon I pledge to you. If thro’ hell our road take us, an' you lead, I’ll go willin’.”

Gascon nodded, too stunned to speak. Before he could gather his wits, a second man stepped forward and knelt with considerably more care, said “aye, I will too…th’ same thing,” and waved a hand awkwardly in Torvek’s direction. Men around them looked at each other, then slowly, one by one, sank down in their best approximation of vassals taking an oath. They were the opposite of a disciplined military unit, clad in mismatched scavenged armor, their makeshift weapons shoved aside and clattering noisily. Some men were looking up earnestly, others bowed their heads. None of them had left, and none of them were left standing. The courtyard was suddenly very quiet.

Gascon waited until he trusted his voice to be steady, then spoke in a deep voice that carried. “I thought I had no family left in this world, but tonight you proved me wrong. As you gave me your pledge, so hear mine. I will fight for you as I would for my own kin. If there’s a way out of this hell, I will find it, and lead you there—whatever the cost, s’long as I still live. On my blood, as the Duke of Dogs, I swear it!”

_It seemed like such a good plan then—before you actually knew her_ , thought Gascon bitterly, bringing his mind back to the present. Amnesty and gold for all th’ Strays, and for Nilfgaard in return, just one prisoner. Many lives saved, for one sacrificed.

_Meve’s life._ He had a vision suddenly of the look in her eyes as she leaped into battle, her gaze sheer fire as she drove her sword into a nightmarish cave abomination, the blade catching light for an instant before sinking into blood and darkness—and her voice, ringing out like church bells over the fray, shattering the fear that gripped her men’s hearts so they rushed forward, drawn to her flame, drunk on her courage. He recalled the time she delivered unforgiving justice upon one of her own men accused of murder—her mouth set in fierce determination, hands gripped tightly on the hilt of her sword to hide their shaking—and the time she helped a kneeling Gheso soldier to his feet, offering mercy even as her troops clamored for vengeance. He understood now why the gate guards in Lyria’s capital, sworn to arrest their queen, instead had parted before her with lowered eyes—as if she was their homeland itself transmuted into human flesh, untouchable, hallowed.

Were he to roam to the edges of the known world and beyond, were he to walk the earth a thousand years like some deathless mage, yet he would never find another like her. For there would never be another who was so deserving of the royal title in every way, so clearly destined to rule and become legend.

And he would deliver her to her death.

He wondered if he could do it. He wondered how he could not. He thought of his men, trusting him, their lives and freedom all hanging on his choices. What a perfect trap he had spun for himself in his arrogance—what an exquisitely wretched prison for his own damnation…

He looked out at the night through the blur in his eyes. Many years ago, in the midst of tragedy, he had taught himself how to make his mind blank, to think of nothing so he could keep on going, his pain always there but pushed into the background just enough to give him room to survive. He called back that emptiness to himself now, thought of abyss within abyss, followed the rhythmic patterns of the ancient dwarven wall carvings with his gaze. But the calm wouldn't come. He saw Meve’s face in every shadow in the snow, heard her voice in the rising wind outside.

He knew he must head back. He felt his fingers going numb with cold, and he couldn’t afford to go sleepless when a split-second’s slowed reflexes might cost his life in battle the next day. He thought, as he climbed down the treacherous icy steps, that the hardest part would be to put on his usual carefree face as he made his way back through camp.

* * *

Captain Oisin ducked his head as he entered the command tent. With most of the company asleep by now, he must have realized that his general’s summons was as delicate as it was urgent. He saluted, then said quietly, “Sir. You sent for me?”

“Yes, Captain,” Reynard replied. “I have a matter to discuss, with the utmost discretion.” He drew near so as to keep their voices low. “You observed the spectacle in the tavern tonight?”

“Yes sir.”

“How much did you lose?”

Oisin swallowed. “Fifteen gulden sir.”

“In good company with your men. And did you observe, as I did, that our Stray friends placed large wagers all on their own leader, and made out like bandits, as it were?”

“You suggest the contest was not a fair one?”

“Exactly. And on that suspicion I made sure to hide myself where I might observe the mongrel and perhaps confront him if I confirmed his duplicity. Yet what I found may be far worse than a mere gambling racket.”

_I have a plan,_ Reynard had overheard Gascon say, and the rest of his words had sounded equally incriminating. Nonetheless, they proved nothing in themselves. Reynard suspected that if he warned the queen of his discovery, he would merely succeed in putting Gascon on alert, and the sly man would concoct some innocent, doe-eyed explanation. After all, Reynard had tried to warn Meve about the former brigand on many occasions, to no avail. He was too controlled to show how much it bothered him to have her dismiss his intuition so readily. He had spent his life commanding men, and his instincts in assessing them were seldom wrong.

“I want him watched at all times, day and night,” Reynard now said to Captain Oisin, without going into exact detail about Gascon’s words. “If he goes anywhere he shouldn’t be, does anything that seems out of place, you are to alert me immediately. Pick a few men you trust utterly, who will not speak of this to anyone else. I do not wish to trouble Her Grace on account of a mere suspicion.” 

_Whatever you’re up to, Gascon, I will find you out_ , Reynard thought with icy resolve. _Gods help you if you mean her any harm._


End file.
